A week went past, a drab week for a discontented Tab Holland, for now there was neither a likelihood of, nor an excuse for, a chance meeting.
A sedative week for hiding Walters. References to the murder seldom appeared now in the newspapers, and he had found a man who had offered to get him a job as a steward on an outward bound liner.
A week of drugged sleep for a besotted man, curled up on a mattress at the top of Yo Len Fo’s house.
But for Inspector Carver an exceptionally busy week though there was no newspaper record of his activities.
Tab no longer spent his evenings at home. The flat seemed horribly empty now that the lovesick Rex had gone. He had had a radio from him saying that he was improved in health. The message was cheerful enough, so that Ursula’s refusal could not have bitten very hard.
By the end of the week, life had become an intolerable dreariness, and to make matters worse, nothing was happening in the great world that called for Tab’s intervention and interest. He was in that condition of utter boredom when there happened the first of those remarkable incidents which, in his official account of the case, Inspector Carver refers to as “The Second Activity.”
The flats, one of which Tab occupied, had originally been apartments in a private house. With little structural alterations they had been turned into self-contained suites. On each of the landings was a door of one of the four flats. Admission to the house was by the front door, and the landlord had so arranged matters that, whilst the key of each flat was different, all keys opened the street-door. It was, therefore, possible to go in and out without observation, unless by chance one of the other tenants happened to be on the stairs or in the passageway at the time.
On Saturday night Tab knew he would be alone in the house; the other three tenants invariably spent the weekend out of town. One was a middle-aged musician who lived on the top floor. Beneath him was a young couple engaged in literary work; then came Tab’s flat, and the ground floor suite was occupied by a man whose profession was unknown, but who was generally believed to be connected with an advertising agency. He was seldom at home, and Tab had only seen him once.
The Saturday night happened to be the occasion of an annual dinner of his club, and Tab dressed and went out early, spent a mildly exhilarating evening and returned home at half-past twelve. There was nothing in first appearance to suggest that anything unusual had happened in his absence, except that the lights in his sitting-room were burning and he had switched them off before he went out.
His first impression was that the waste of current was due to his own carelessness, but then he recalled very clearly that he had turned out the light and closed the sitting-room door before he went out. Now the sitting-room door was open, as also was the door of Rex’s old room.
XVI
Tab smiled to himself. He who had investigated so many burglaries had never imagined that he would be favoured by the attention of those midnight adventurers. He went into Rex’s room, turned the switch and had only to take one glance to know that somebody had been very busy indeed in his absence. Under the bed which his companion had occupied, were two shallow trunks, filled with those of Rex Lander’s belongings which he had not taken with him. One of these had been pulled out, placed on the bed and opened. It had been opened unscientifically with a chisel, which Tab knew was his property, and must have been taken from the toolbox in the kitchen. The lock was wrenched off and the contents of the box were scattered on the bed. The other trunk had not been touched. Whether the thief had been successful in his quest Tab did not know, because he was ignorant of the box’s contents. He guessed he must have been disappointed, for beyond a quantity of underlinen, more or less in a state of disrepair, a few books and drawing instruments, and a packet of letters which Tab saw at a glance were from Jesse Trasmere, there was nothing at all valuable in the trunk.
He went to his own room, but none of his things had been touched. And then he began a careful search of the other rooms in the flat. They yielded, however, no clue as to the identity of the mysterious visitor, and Tab got on to the phone to Carver and was lucky to find him.
“Burglars? That’s poetic justice, Tab,” said Carver’s sad voice. “I’ll come right along.”
The detective was at the house in ten minutes.
“If this had happened in the daytime I could find a fairly simple explanation,” said Tab, “because the front door below is left open until nine, and the tenant who comes in or goes out nearest to nine o’clock, closes it. We keep the door open because it saves a lot of running up and down stairs, but the street-door was closed when I came home.”
“How would it have been a simple matter to burgle the flat?” asked Carver, and Tab explained that there was a window on the landing through which a surefooted and skilful adventurer might emerge on to a narrow ledge by which the kitchen window could be reached.
“He didn’t go that way I should think,” said Carver, after he had inspected the kitchenette. “No, the burglar opened the door like a gentleman. Do you know whether Mr. Lander had anything worth stealing in that trunk?”
Tab shook his head.
“I am perfectly certain he hadn’t,” he said. “Poor old Rex had nothing of value except the money he drew from his uncle’s estate just before he left.”
Carver went back
